


Aemon, the first of his name

by ann_and_white_elephant



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst and Humor, Complicated Relationships, Cousin Incest, Gen, Next Generation, Older Woman/Younger Man, POV First Person, Requited Unrequited Love, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-06-13 11:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15363495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ann_and_white_elephant/pseuds/ann_and_white_elephant
Summary: The most splendid event of my life was my birth. Likely, because I didn't have to do much that day.





	1. beginning of the story (before rewrite)

**Author's Note:**

> This part of story was posted as my attempt to find a beta. I am leaving it here, next chapter contains the whole story after rewrite.

For thousands of years they will say that my offspring six generations forth were the greatest kings and queens that ever ruled. Some folk will even claim that it was in their royal blood as they came from the line of Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen. Truly, my father had been a great hero and a saviour and my mother a conqueror without a peer, but I myself see only fly in that soup. I was born of the same blood, their sole child to live past nursery, but the only remarkable gift gods granted me was unfailing ability to avoid the greatness which surrounded me all my life. If the storyteller was especially generous he could describe my life as a series of unremarkable misfortunes. Only the manner of my death and my obsession with one woman I should have never desired some find slightly amusing. Though I can tell you that even that would be surpassed by every other mummer's play. Luckily for me, I was never a man to care what songs will be sung about me once my flesh is devoured by vermin. I would trade every one of them for a piece of stale bread.

The most splendid event of my life was my birth. Likely, because I didn't have to do much that day. I came to world at the eve of the Long Night and if the kingdom was in any state to do so, there would have been a grand celebration. My parents named me Aemon for the Dragonknight and the old Targaryen maester, who had served on the Wall, but I grew up neither to be a famous knight, nor a wise man of learning. I simply grew up to be me. In the following years, the Others were defeated, spring came and I still lived, though by the time I was six it was clear that I will never follow my parents in their grand acts. The dragons showed no more interest in me than I in them and it was barely any different with the direwolves. The only animal that appeared intrigued in me was a goat from the Red Keep's kitchens. And that affair started with a misunderstanding. An apple felt from my hand when I was fourteen, and the goat, never the cleverest among the animals thought I was feeding it. Still, at that time I was wholly satisfied with myself that I finally managed to form a bond between a man and the beast, my family was famous for and never tried to discourage this partnership. I never meant to give the goat that apple a would have taken it back if I managed to catch it in time, so I did feel slightly guilty for it. I ease my conscience with a though that because of our meting the goat lived a happy and privileged life henceforth. But we are overtaking the events with this tale. Before I was four and ten and met the goat I was seven and my lady mother, the queen grew heavy with a babe again. I must have been child uncommonly slow, innocent or indifferent because I was never afraid that my parent's love would be moved a to more deserving new sibling. It was never to be in the end, anyway. My little sister was born, lived four short days and then died. My mother followed her to the grave not even a day later. I think, that my clearest memory of Daenerys Targaryen is from that time, as she lied in her bed regal and dying. I truly grieved her, much more than the child I never saw and so did my father, but soon the absence of one woman in our lives became overshadowed by the presence of another.

I must have heard about Arya Stark earlier, probably I have even met her, but it was only after my mother's death that she became a constant companion of my father, even more so that the great white direwolf which shadowed Jon Snow's steps before its death. I did not have slightest idea about the nature of relationship between my father and the woman he had once called sister, but I think that my fascination with her would have happened no matter my ignorance. The day she arrived in the Red Keep (surprisingly to her customs by the main gate) was the first day I found a woman or a girl beautiful, though it was in the meaningless way of a young boy. She was considered pretty by many,despite the common talk that she could never surpass my late mother with her Targaryen features or even the loveliness of her sister. I did not care a fig for such a nonsense, to me she was close to goddess at the time. It wasn't just her face I found pleasant. I liked the way she was never afraid to fight anything and anyone who came her way. Some of my father's courtiers tensed like a startled deer just seeing her. She was never too sweet to me, but I found her raised eyebrows and unbelieving looks at my antics more honest and true that empty words of court ladies and lords who praised my every fart. With span of time I have also bow to her patience, because from the first day we met I followed her whenever I could as a pup on invisible leash. Maybe she too got used to it in the end. I saw her even laugh at my persistence twice of trice, especially, when my father tried to send me gently from her bedchamber his serene face slightly cracking. Did I knew what those awkward moments were about, I might have put on better fight. But no, I was both blessed ad cursed with not knowing, weaving childish plans of marrying this Stark woman once I came of age. And it didn't change as I was growing up, though some less innocent imaginations sprout at that time. Sweet fresh faces of lords' daughters, King Landing's girls I glimpsed bathing in the sea, scandalously clad Dornish envoys, none of them could compare to vision of Arya Stark as she rode in the Kingswood drenched by a summer storm.


	2. whole story (rewrite)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank all of you for reviews. I am sorry for somehow confusing posting, but I decided to keep the first chapter, which was posted as an attempt to find a beta and contains the beginning of the story before rewrite. Chapter 2 is the whole story after rewrite. I only partially succeeded in getting beta, so feel free to point to any mistakes you see.

My offspring six generations forth were the greatest kings and queens that ever ruled. Some folk will claim that it was in royal blood. Truly, my father had been a great hero and a savior and my mother a conqueror without a peer, but I myself see only fly in that cup of Arbor Gold. I came from the same blood. I was the sole child of Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen to live past nursery, but the only remarkable gift the gods granted me was unfailing ability to avoid the greatness which surrounded me all my life. If the Storyteller were especially generous, they could describe my life as a series of unremarkable misfortunes. Only the manner of my death and my obsession with one woman I should have never desired some find slightly amusing. Though I can tell you that even that would be surpassed by every other mummer's play. Luckily for me, I have never much cared what songs will be sung about me once my flesh was devoured by vermin. I would trade ten endless ballads for one piece of stale bread.

The most splendid event of my life was my birth. Likely, because I didn't have to do much that day. I came to world at the eve of the Long Night, and if the kingdom had been in any state to do so, there would have been a grand celebration. My parents named me Aemon for the Dragonknight and for the old Targaryen Maester, who had served on the Wall. Yet I grew up neither to be a famous knight, nor a wise man of learning. I simply grew up to be me. In the following years, the Others were defeated, the spring came, and then even summer and I still lived. Alas, by the time I was six it was clear that I would never follow my parents in their grand acts. The dragons and the direwolves showed no more interest in me than I in them. The only animal that had ever appeared intrigued in me was a goat from the Red Keep's kitchens. And even that affair started with a misunderstanding.

An apple felt from my hand when I was fourteen, and the poor goat thought I was feeding it. I never meant to give the goat that apple. I would have taken it back if I managed to catch it. Still, at that time, I was wholly satisfied with myself that I finally managed to form a bond between a man and the beast, my family was famous for and never tried to right this wrong impression. If later I felt guilty for it, I eased my conscience with a though that because of our meting the goat came to live a happy, privileged life. But we are overtaking the events with this tale.

Before I was four and ten and met the goat, I was seven and my lady mother, the queen grew heavy with a babe again. I must have been a slow child, because I was never afraid that my parents’ love would be moved to a more deserving new sibling. It was never to be in the end, anyway. My little sister was born, lived four short days and then died. My mother followed her to the grave not even a day later. My clearest memory of Daenerys Targaryen is from that time, as she lied in her bed regal and dying. I truly grieved her, much more than the child I never saw. So did my father. However soon the absence of one woman in our lives became overshadowed by the presence of another.

I must have heard about Arya Stark earlier. Maybe I had even met her. But it was only after my mother's death that she became a constant companion of my father. Even more so that the great white direwolf which had shadowed Jon Snow's steps before its death. I did not have slightest idea of the nature of relationship between my father and the woman he had once called sister, but maybe I would have grown fascinated with her whether I had known or not. The day she arrived in the Red Keep—surprisingly to her customs by the main gate—was the first day I found a woman beautiful. Then it was an awkward first love of a boy, not a desire of a man, but no less overwhelming.

Arya was considered pretty by many, thought others claimed that she could never surpass the loveliness of her sister, or my mother’s unearthly beauty. I did not care for such nonsense. To me she was close to a goddess at the time. It wasn't just her face that I found pleasant. I liked the way she was never afraid to fight anything and anyone who came her way. Some of my father's courtiers tensed like a startled deer just seeing her. She was never too sweet to me, but I found her raised eyebrows and unbelieving looks at my antics more honest and true than empty words of court ladies and lords who praised my every fart. And I had to bow to her patience. From the first day we met I followed her whenever I could as a pup on invisible leash, yet she never appeared irked by it. Maybe she too got used to it in the end. I saw her even laugh at my persistence, when my father tried to send me gently from her bedchamber, his serene face slightly cracking. Had I known what those awkward moments were about, I might have put on better fight. But no, I was both blessed and cursed with not knowing, weaving childish plans of marrying this Stark woman once I came of age. It didn't change as I was growing up. The sweet fresh faces of lords' daughters, the King Landing's girls I glimpsed bathing in the sea, scandalously clad Dornish envoys, none of them could compare to vision of Arya Stark riding through the Kingswood in a summer storm.

As it happened, I might have been the last soul in the Red Keep to learn about my father's betrothal to her. That morning, in the thirteenth year of my life, our maester told me, that the king meant to announce a royal betrothal to the court. It got me worried and hopeful at the same time. I was afraid that I might be married to someone else than Arya and hopeful that it might be her. She was a fine highborn woman after all, more than suitable to be a queen. However, the man quickly clarified that it was my father who was getting married and not me. I lost interest at that. I didn't see any highborn woman getting close to the king and thought that the maester might have it wrong. And even if not, I had enough trust in my father to choose a second wife who wouldn't try to smother me in my sleep.

I have half forgotten about the news by midday. And I entirely put it out of my head hours later when I heard the tidings that shattered my world. After hours of futile effort, my master at arms had finally agreed that I was suitably beaten for a day. I was just sitting to a side in comfortable shade watching more gifted squires spar, when I heard one of them utter the words. "Little too old, but still good enough, shame she's getting married." For some reason most of other boys seemed to grow uneasy at that. That was strange, there was little which would not be discussed among them about women.

"Who?" asked someone else, who like me, didn't hear the tale from the beginning.

"Arya Stark," the first speaker answered with a sleazy face that begged to be punched. Shame I would never be the man to do so, much less shocked as I was by his words. And the douche continued to talk unaware of my great turmoil, or even my presence. "I wouldn't mind having her, she is wild in..."

"Nik," one of the youths' companions shook his head warningly.

Nik the Douche just laughed. "What, afraid of a woman five foot tall? Or that the king beheads you for a treason? It's just a talk. He's not Aerys or Cersei. Besides, what they don't know won't bother them."

"I don't think you can say that _they_ don't know. Well, the king doesn't which is half of _them_. So you can't say _they_ know either. A riddle, truly." All of them turned to the sound of woman's voice. No other that Arya Stark was leaning against a marble pillar. Her face just as emotionless as the stone behind her.

When no one managed to utter any answer, she dismissed them and went to sit next to me.

She sighed. "Obviously none of them has ever seen Jon truly angry." I had never seen my father truly angry either, but I had heard the stories of his strength in fury. Of course, when I myself got furious I just grew red in face and blabbed any words I meant to say.

"Why are you here?" I asked her. I was sure it was not just to scare piss out of few no-ones.

"I wanted to talk to you." She was watching me with those captivating grey eyes. I did not mind the sight, but I didn’t want to talk. I wanted only one answer.

"Are you getting married?"

"Yes."

At that moment of my life I would not be able to recall anything that hurt worse than her words. Whatever else she wanted to add, I didn't care to hear it. I ran straight to the stables, ordered a horse to be saddled and rode from the city, as if that could help me escape it all. 

I have no doubt that the knights of the Kingsguard followed me easily enough, but they had the decency to stay out of sight. I missed the diner and the announcement. I would not even return for the night, but I had no food with me and my hunger quickly grew. In the keep I headed to the kitchens but somehow my resolution crumbled with a full belly. Instead of returning to my exile I went to my own chamber in the part of the castle restricted to my family. There were guards at the entrance of the corridor, but no further. So it happened that I witnessed what was not supposed for the eyes of others.

My father stood at the open door of his own bedchamber. He was crownless for once and barefoot. Nevertheless, he still struck for an imposing figure in a way I would never achieve. But it was not his stance or his unkingly attire that had taken me aback. Whatever else I might be I was his son and he had never hidden the man he was outside the court from me. No, it was a short woman nestled in his arms that shocked me. If she was a whore, a willing widow or a serving girl, that I could deal with. I never saw my father to seek such a company, but I had just reached the age where I was learning man's desires on my own. However, the way he held the woman, one of his hands covering hers above his heart, the soft look in his eyes, that spoke of something different. This was not a simple pleasant stretch under the sheets or marriage born of whatever alliance he needed this moonturn. It suffices to say that just a moment past, it would have been easier for me to imagine direwolves playing dice that this side of my father. And that was not even the end of it. The woman turned, and I finally recognized Arya.

"You are getting married." I blurted. I don’t know if I meant her, him, or both as I spoke the words, but once they were out it all fell in place. And it hurt. "Thank you for making sure that I was the last one to know."

My father had the grace to look guilty. Arya did not. "I meant to tell you before the announcement to the court, you refused to listen." She reminded me.

I was having none of it. "So you just woke up today and thought, hey, what's a nice day, let's get married to someone I thought was my sibling half of my life?!"

Lines at my father's brow deepened, but he answered calmly. "No, I asked Arya for her hand four years ago. Yesterday she finally agreed. But you are right, we shouldn't have kept it secret from you for so long, you are not a child anymore. For that much I am sorry."

Not a child?! Of course I was not a child! Just a few days before I almost embarrassed myself when I got lost in my head imagining Arya bathing. All it took was one of the castle maids telling me that the water she was carrying was for the Stark woman's bath. It was all way too much for me to handle. I turned to run away once more, but a loosened carped made a quick end of my dramatic exit. I slipped, fell and hit my head. If there is any advice I could give you living my life, it's that loosened carpets are just as sinister as woods overrun with outlaws.

I regained my senses with my head still hurting. My father was sitting in my room, watching my sickbed.

"Aemon?" he asked carefully, when he saw me awake.

"At least it's a better name than Walder." I sighed.

My father called for the maester and once the man had good look and rewarded me with dozen tedious questions, we were left alone again.

"I should have been the one to tell you about the betrothal, but..." Jon Snow began, only to stop abruptly. "Still, it wasn't right, it should have been me," he finished.

I have no answer for that and he continued somehow hesitantly. "Arya thinks that you like her as a man likes a woman."

It would have been more prudent to lie in that moment, but I was never most prudent of them. "I meant to marry her one day. She's not that old." I let my father know. His face of utter disbelief would have been worth that truth, if nothing else. In the end, instead of being angry, he just offered me a tired smile.

"She would be, by the time she agreed." It was my turn to stare at him. That was a moment of rare understatement between us. Finally I found something he was not good at. I could relate to that. Yes, for all he had achieved, that man could not make a good joke to save his life.

"When will be the wedding?" I asked resigned.

"Soon."

The answer stirred some genuine interest in me. "Why are you two suddenly in such hurry?"

After my confession I wouldn't wish to be in my father's place, but I wouldn't wish to be in my place either, if anyone had given me a choice. He did answer. And so, while I was one of the last to learn about their betrothal, I was one of the first to know that Arya was with a child.

Jon Snow married Arya Stark not a moonturn forth. The ceremony was held both in sept and godswood. I could do nothing but watch. My father had a rare look of happiness and satisfaction on his face that day. What Arya herself thought of it all, I could not tell you. The mask she showed to the world was not one anyone has ever learned to read.

Any royal wedding would attract a talk, much more the hasty one. And people talked, but the biggest target of the gossip turned out to be not the bridegroom or the bride, but me. Everyone in the King's Landing knew I took the tidings of the betrothal poorly. And when I turned up the day after the announcement with my face visibly bruised, few were likely to believe the tale about the carpet. They were sure my father must have laid a hand on me. They were wrong. Even more wrong were those who though that my dark mood was a hurt of a child whose mother had been replaced. No, the pain I felt was a pain of a man whose love choose another.

My half-sister was born little more than half a year after her parents' wedding as a big and healthy babe. They named her Daena. After Daena, Eleana and Eddard followed the next year. All of them turned up grey-eyed and brown-haired and later grew up to be almost as quick and dangerous as their mother. If any of them ever wished for my crown I would not stand a chance of tree-legged lamb surrounded by wolves they were. Luckily for me and unluckily for my enemies, though I was never as close to them as they were to each other, they always considered me the part of the pack.

My relationship with Arya changed in those years. I'm not sure if it was her marriage, her motherhood or my father's knowledge about my feelings for his wife, but I felt that I had to find a new favorite pastime aside of following her around. I knew by then that neither fighting not learning would be for me. I went for drinking, dicing and wenching instead. And even in that I never truly succeeded.

I was a pitiful drunk. Before I turned fifteen I had been truly drunk more than ten times, but that doesn't compare to the three times I retched at myself, four times I retched at one knight of Kingsguard or another, or some Tyrell or even my royal father and countless times I managed to act as if I was drunk even before I had enough ale for it. By my fifteenth nameday I gave up heavy drinking and moved to dicing. I heard of men who lost their castles and family's fortunes to debts in dices, but I have to tell you, this won't be any such tale. For a start, no one was fool enough to give me more than clothes I was wearing and few silver stags. And all it took to cure me from gambling was two trips back to the Red Keep in nothing more than my smallclothes. The scorn and laugh I could live with, but autumn had just begun, and I was not so fond of the cold. Next came the women. After my brush with dicing, my father was loath to give me any coin to speak of. Still, I managed to find some copper and decided that the day came for me to see a whorehouse from inside. I sneaked alone from the Keep and entered one such establishment near the docks. I had one look at what my poor coin could buy and run away never in my life to return.

However, even if I never accomplished my original intend, this venture turned out to have somehow surprising consequences. To the shame of my family—aside of myself because I didn't care and Arya because she found the whole episode amusing—the word of my misadventure spread in King's Landing. One bold serving girl took it in her head that it was some sort of accomplishment to be the first to bed a prince, even if that prince was me. As it was her idea and not mine, it didn't end in spectacular failure. Though I wouldn't call it glaring success either. The whole, rather quick, affair took place in servant's cell on the third floor. I promised her jewels afterwards. She spat back at me and almost struck me claiming she was no whore. That was the last we had seen of each other. For some time, I kept imagining that Arya poisoned the girl in a fit of uncontrollable jealousy and had her body thrown in the sea, but that was much closer to my wishful thinking than the truth. Years later Arya told me that all she gave to the girl was a moon tea and enough coin, so she no longer needed to serve in the Keep. And that was more related to affairs of the kingdom than affairs of Arya's heart.

More moon tea must have been brewed it the following years. I inherited my father' shape of years, but not his overcomplicated sense of honor. The girl whose name I never learned was my first, but not the last. I was called pretty as often as I was called handsome and till the age of ten and six I could pass for a girl if I tried a little, but I did inherit Targaryen features from my lady mother. I quickly found out, that together with being born the crown prince it was enough for some. I never pursued those women and girls. I think that if I had to, I would have led much more chaste life. But, well, they just kept coming. My father must have known about most of it. I am just as sure that he didn't approve, but it took some time before he interfered. Likely, he hoped that girls closer to my age would diminish my yearning for his own wife. Or at least he felt some guilt over the whole affair. And maybe it did help with the lust, but not with the longing. Often, when I looked at my half siblings, I couldn't help to wish they were my own children instead. Still, the day came when my father let me know his displeasure. It wasn't for a woman, but two women almost naked in my bed. The first one was Lord Mallister's widowed cousin, almost five years my senior, the other a Piper girl from some minor branch. To my defense, to have them both at the same time was not my idea, though, of course, I didn't protest all that much.

My lord father entered the bedchamber I had been granted during our visit of the Seagard without any warning. He was dressed in all his kingly attire, crown on his head and sword at his hip and he looked less than pleased.

"Get dressed and leave us alone," he ordered the women in a voice no lord or lady in the Kingdom dared to refuse. I knew I wouldn’t enjoy the talk that was about to follow, but I was suddenly saved by a divine intervention. Arya appeared seemingly out of nowhere at my father's side.

"Lord Bracken and Lord Blackwood arrived." She informed my father.

"Together?" Jon Snow asked surprised.

Arya snorted. "At the same time."

Father gave me last long look, but he had no choice but to leave. "We will talk later." He let me know and with that he was gone.

Arya remained. She seated herself at the edge of the bed and I suddenly didn't dread the lecture so much.

She looked at me sternly. "We should marry you, let you father three children and then have you gelded."

I gave her an easy smile. "If you are willing to take a second husband I won't protest all that much."

She sighed. "If you were anyone else…"

"But I am not." I answered easily. Still, I grew slightly worried about her words when not even a moonturn later they introduced me to my future bride.

Lorra Hightower was of age with me. Fair and tall, she was pretty enough. I was relieved to see her. At least, until they let us alone and I got to know more than her looks. The girl's parents perished when she was a small child and someone had an ill-suited notion to leave her upbringing solely to septons and septas. You could talk with Lorra about neither war nor weather without getting a passage from the seven-pointed star as an answer. That was more than I was brave enough to deal with. I run to my father and begged him to find me some Florent girl instead or allow me to become mummer in Essos.

"Aemon," he answered me "I will not drag you to the sept by force, but Lady Lorra is Lord Hightower's heir. Her grandfather is past eighty. As soon as he dies, she will become prey for greedy suitors. We can't afford for some such man to hold Oldtown. She might be too pious for your tastes, but the girl is not ambitious and she doesn't come with a flock of grapping kin. I do not wish to ever see second Margaery Tyrell or even next Queen Cersei."

I didn't even answer him. We both knew very well that I won't put much of a fight in the end. I brooded for some time, pondered about all more desirable brides my father could have chosen for me, but my thoughts just kept turning to Arya. It was unlikely that my father would give up his own wife, and the chances were even slimmer that she would ever choose me over him. I resigned myself to my fate.

I married at seven and ten and by eight and ten I became father. To my own surprise, I felt happy when Lorra told me she was with child, and even happier when my son was born. Everyone insisted that the boy needed Targaryen name. As always, I was not one the stand bravely against the tide. I named him Duncan.

Duncan was a sweet child, easy to laugh as soon as he learned how. He was one of few souls who ever truly cherished my company, but I wasn't even twenty-one when my wife and son died.

It was just a chill, yet it took them both as quickly and as easily as wind blows dry leaves. I never found it in myself to miss Lorra. Aside of irregular meetings in our marriage bed, we barely spend any time together. When we did she would go on for hours about some pious talk while I would pretend to listen without hearing a word. I knew most of the girls I bedded for a night better than her. If her septas hadn't provided her with a suspiciously accurate knowledge about what was supposed to happen between man and woman I might have been tempted to convince her that the marriage duty consisted of husband and wife ignoring each other to the best of their abilities. She wasn't truly unpleasant, I suppose. And when we lay together, at least we didn't try to talk, but I never gathered much interest in her or our marriage. It was Duncan's loss that tore me apart. He was such a pretty child. Small for his age, but with sweet face, fair hair and pale lilac eyes. Arya would sometimes play with him as she did with her own children. I would always remember a day not so long before his death when I found the two of them in the castle’s kitchens laughing. Arya held Duncan who was covered in floor head to heels. Her own dark clothes weren't faring any better and her belly was already rounding with another child, but in my eyes, she never looked more beautiful.

That was a happy day, but with Duncan's passing death had taken liking of our house.

Children die, everyone would say. It happens even in royal families. I did not care for their words and they did not care for my grief. Apart of those who knew him in his short life, Duncan's loss didn't disturb the life in Seven Kingdom's, in King's Landing or even in the Red Keep. The least he was mourned by ambitious lords with unmarried daughters. If I cared to look, even I would have noticed that the number of such men grew ten to one even before my wife's body had time to cool. Yet, their schemes weren't even blooms of future fruits, when the whole kingdom was shaken by another death. Children die, and life continues. Kings die too, but oft as not chaos and blood follow. Chill took my son and wife. Storm took my father and his dragon.

I always knew that the best I could do as a king would be not to get underfoot of those, who ruled in my name and look royal for those, who knew no better. When the day came, I couldn't manage even that much. I still mourned my son and suddenly I mourned my father too. If Arya was ever truly angry at me, it must have been then. I was of age, but it was her who had to rule the kingdom in all but name. She showed the stone face to the world, but I knew that inside she was crumbling with grief for my father and that one last stillborn child she had lost in the end. And I didn't make it any easier. I attended council meetings drunk or not at all. I didn't have women in my bed near as often as before my marriage, but when it happened, I made bloody sure they were not a sort I would be encouraged to wed. When they introduced me to any maiden from a noble family I made it a sport to find the quickest way to offend her and her kin. Arya put with me for a year until I was rude to the Sealord of Braavos almost to the point of the man declaring a war on us.

That night I returned from the vine cellar in one of my best attempts to get drunk and lied to bed still clad in clothes stained with wine. Before I even fell asleep I sensed another presence in the room. "Whoever you are, if you brought me food, find someone else to eat it. If you want to fuck me, come later. And if you want to kill me, do it quickly or let me sleep." I grumbled to the stranger. I was too drunk and tired to deal with it.

"You are truly a lousy king, Aemon. One more year like this and we will be all dead." Arya told me as she stepped from deep shadow and lit an oil lamp. Her voice sobered me as nothing else could.

I sat up and crossed my arms. "I am as good as I can be. It's your children who should rule. That had been my intend for the last fifteen years. But if you want to do the only other reasonable thing, lock me here and tell everyone I'm dead. Just please, feed me at least twice a day."

I imagine that it were more the words I didn't say than those which I spoke that made her sit at the edge of my bed. It was move so sudden and unexpected that I shielded back away from her.

She gifted me with a dangerous half-smile. "Afraid?"

"No." I answered honestly. I never quite managed to gain any sense of self-preservation when it came to her.

She leaned closer again and this time I didn't back away. I was rewarded by a long thoughtful kiss.

I was inches away for one of precious few things I wanted in my life and still... "I'm not my father." I told her once we pulled apart.

She took a strand of my pale hair between her fingers gave it an odd look and laughed humorlessly. "No, you are not".

Maybe we should have told each other much more that day, but, her answer was enough for me and I had other things on my mind. In the end there was preciously little I would change about that night. I even managed to retch on the floor only once we were done. Afterwards Arya led me to her own bedchamber and herself draw us a bath. I felt asleep in it, but when I woke clean and rested in her own bed, it was still night and she was still there at her desk reading correspondence. Like as not most of those letters was not meant for her eyes.

I walked to her and kissed both of her ears. I could not bring myself to kiss her on the top of her head or touch her nose with mine as I saw my father doing many times. She didn't acknowledge my presence at first, but thankfully when she finally responded it was not to turn me away. We had made as good use of her bed as he had of mine.

"Thank you." I told her simply, but she didn't accept my words.

"It happened as much to ease my grief as yours."

"Did it make things better?" I asked.

It wasn't just her long face and grey eyes that made her Stark through and through, and Starks were never ones for comforting lies. "I felt angry, sad and empty, now I feel guilty too." She told me.

"But that is something, isn't it? Almost nothing is surely better that nothing at all." I don't think she believed me, or that my words made all that much sense, but my over cheerful voice at least granted me a real smile. One so small that I would have missed it, if it weren't what I wished to see above anything else.

In between our parting in the morning and the moment she entered my chamber the following night I imagined thousand ways she would let me know to forget, what happened. None of them come to pass. We spent the whole day surrounded by crowds of people acting our roles, but not when we were alone. It didn't take the grief away, she was right in that, but for me, life become little bit more bearable. I even tried to be a decent king. Which in my case consisted of sitting well-dressed and clean on the throne and letting all the important decisions to my Small Council.  As for Arya... mind you, I loved her most of my life, but even I wouldn't bet a pair-less boot that one of her reason for sharing my bed wasn't to make me behave. Still, I hope she got whatever she wished from our affair. I did. She might have never loved me half as much as my father, but for a man who was a king, I never learned to be picky.

In the following months I grew greedy and Arya started to nurse doubts. "We should not be doing this," she spoke still out of breath as she lied in my arms. "You should marry again."

"Then marry me," I answered easily. I have never tried to propose to her, certain she would reject me, but when she was half suggesting it herself...

Of course, that wasn't what Arya had in mind. She turned and gave me a punch as good as any I got in the training yard. "You are truly a piss-poor king, Aemon, I'm too old for that."

For once I showed some political insight, which I quickly compensated with lack of tact. "Are you barren?" I asked her bluntly.

Was she any other woman, she might have smack me again or burst to tears, but she just made a face. "No, but– "

I silenced her with a kiss. "I will try to be responsible a bit, so let's make a deal. I will get you with a child, you will marry me."

I think that the only reason why she agreed was that she had never forgiven the gods that one last child, they had taken from her.

My father had been a hero who's like lives only once in a thousand years. I always knew that I would be worse king, worse warrior, worse at maester's teachings, even my hair curled in more annoying way, but I did manage one thing better. It took him more than four years to convince Arya Stark to marry him, I barely needed half as long to lead her to a sept. While at her first wedding her dress was slightly loose, the second time she didn't bother to pretend anything. After all, we married only three months before our child was to be born.

And the fools talked again. Those who did not know me were spreading that Arya seduced their poor noble king to finally put her child on the throne. Those who did not know Arya tattled that I took my father's helpless widow by force as a revenge for taking my mother's place. And those who knew least of all gossiped that we murdered our spouses together to claim the throne. Well, I had to give them that my marriage was somehow unusual, but there were preciously few people whose opinion would have mattered to me. Of those two were dead and three were children. Though my half-sibling asked of me to be nice to their mother in a way that made me tad grateful that they were children and their wolves yet just sweet pups.

Still, I got what I wanted, and I was content. But likely, you won't be surprised when I tell you that it didn't last.

My second son was born while I was away from the keep. I came with my Hand to deal with rebelling Lord Merryweather. It ended quickly with the man's head rolling on the ground, but we were delayed on the way back by rains and fogs. I did not hate Lord Merryweather as we rode to stop him, nor when the King's Justice was beheading him, but I might have throttled him with my own hand's when I learned how precious time he had stolen from me.

The last birth Arya gave didn't go well. "You better take good care of him." Arya warned me as I held our child for the first time. I nodded and brought him near so she could touch him, though she was not strong enough to hold him. She gave her youngest smile and gentle kiss but said no more. Her eyes closed, never to open again.

She was gone and all her children were still young and I... Well, I didn't turn into a great king. But Arya had sense to choose my Small Council carefully. I just made sure not to sabotage their work this time around. They ruled and I was there to always agree with their will. Only in one thing I stood my ground. I never married again. I named my son Jon, more because I was growing short of Targaryen names I liked, than to honor my father. But unlike me, my son grew resembling his namesake. He was a good and able lad and a great king.

But of course, I had to die before the last came to be. That happened in the morning of my son's seventeenth nameday. I was hurrying down the steps when I slipped on a loose carped and choked on piece of sourleaf. Yes, as I had already told you, my death was not that much to write about and loose carpets are evil.


End file.
